


the love that moves the sun and other stars

by Wallyallens



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, in which benvolio is a nerd who quotes italian poetry to avoid saying 'I love you'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallyallens/pseuds/Wallyallens
Summary: Finale/Post-Canon AU where Benvolio has one final request before his execution - parchment and ink, to leave a letter for Rosaline.





	the love that moves the sun and other stars

Heavy footsteps approach, ringing out sharply on the stone of the dungeons and striking leaden dread into Benvolio’s gut. Although his eyes itch with exhaustion and his aching limbs protest, he pulls himself to stand as the figure comes to stand on the opposite side of the iron bars; the man is tall and has his arms folded politely behind his back, like he is not there to execute Benvolio. Prince Escalus. The other man looks calm, hollow eyes scanning Benvolio over before inclining his head slightly.

“It’s time, Montague. Any last requests?”

It’s an empty question – he is supposed to say _no_ , to nod mutely and go to his execution with dignity; to walk himself to his death without shaking legs or fear on an innocent face. Benvolio surprises them both by speaking. It comes almost as an afterthought – but then the heat of her lips rush against his own in memory, and Benvolio’s own move to say: “Parchment and ink.”

Prince Escalus blinks, as if he has misheard. “Excuse me?”

“That’s my last request – my _only_ one. Parchment and ink, and a promise that my note will be delivered.”

“To whom?”

“You know who,” Benvolio replies quietly. He keeps his eyes locked on the Prince’s, not giving the other man the luxury of being able to look away, forcing him to acknowledge the one piece of common ground between them – Rosaline Capulet. The woman they both love. The only person left on this god-damned earth that Benvolio has left to write to. Rocking on his heels, he leans forwards as the Prince hesitates, adding, “Would you really deny a man you’re condemning his last request? Can you really look me in the eye and deny me this? You’re not a bad man, Escalus. Even now I do not believe that. Do not prove me wrong now – for my sake . . . and for hers. Let me say goodbye in the only way left to me.”

There’s a moment in which Benvolio holds his breath in the stuffy cell, unable to blink or breathe, where he thinks he may have overstepped – he expects another punch to the gut, to taste his own blood again – but after a bated breath, the Prince nods. Crumpling slightly, lip shaking as he looks away, Escalus turns to the guard on his left.

“Get what he asks for, and a candle to write by,” Escalus orders. When his gaze shifts back up to Benvolio, his eyes are clouded, confused – “I’ll give you as long as I can.”

“I thank you, my prince-” Benvolio nods.

The Prince hesitates for a second too long before he turns to walk away. Escalus looks more doubtful with each passing moment, his jaw working to bite the inside of his cheek – a movement Benvolio notices only because it was one he had done himself so many times – and looks as if he wants to say something more. His body is tense as he stands by the bars, one hand falling to rest against the iron. Escalus looks at Benvolio, searching for something. Benvolio is left to wonder if he found what he was looking for as the Prince straightens, spine turning back into hammered steel as he sweeps from the dungeon, leaving the prisoner to slump into the alcove without hope once again.

The parchment, ink, and a single candle with wax dripping down the side is brought to him a few minutes later. Benvolio rises again to take them from a guard through the bars of his cell, hissing as hot wax burns his fingers. Quickly, he walks back to the alcove and sits, propping the candle against the stone floor and letting the wax melt enough for it to stand, spreading the small piece of parchment out beside it. It is a minute-long respite to gather himself. But, as ever, Benvolio is running out of time.

The candle had barely enough wick left to last ten minutes – and as it will be snuffed out, he fears his own time will be similarly extinguished.

Ten minutes.

To some, it is an eternity. With the right use – a lot could be done in ten minutes. He is counting on it. If all he has is ten minutes to put down in paper how he feels about Rosaline, to tell her that this was not her fault and that his last and dearest wish for her is a future in which she could be happy – he would make it work. He _had_ to. If ten minutes is all the time he had left to give to her, then he would give it gladly.

“Okay,” Benvolio murmurs to himself, picking up the spindly quill with thin fingers. He lets it dangle between them for a moment, just staring at the blank page, yellowed with age and the flickering candlelight, and imagining it filled with the scratch of his words. There isn’t enough time to say it poetically – to plan his words, measure his heartbeats onto the page - but the truth is easy, and simple. “Okay.”

Slowly, Benvolio begins to write.

By the time the candle burns down to the stone floor, vanishing in a frail wisp of smoke which drifts into his damp eyes, the page is crammed with his handwriting. Whereas his schoolwork was always immaculately written, with long loops and a tidy hand, the shape of his letters now betray the tremors in his hands; the messy words flow without structure or order, and they are as unsteady as the man behind them. Hidden somewhere in there along the lines of gratitude and hope for tomorrow he’s pressed into the page for her was _I love you_ ; he hopes that she would find it. At the very least, he hopes that his careless words were enough to tell Rosaline that she is forgiven.

But alas, he was out of light and time both.

A set of guards appear at the door to his cell, ready to lead him to the gallows. Folding the letter carefully twice, once lengthways and once by the width, Ben stands calmly and walks over, holding out his hands to be manacled. Despite the iron around his wrists, the letter in his palm was somehow heavier, like the heavens held aloft by Atlas. But he is no titan; a mortal heart beats fast within his chest, hammering to be heard amid his shaky breaths, as if desperate to make its last remaining beats count, unknowing how many it has left. All too soon, he is prepared for the gallows.

Pausing outside of the cell, Benvolio turns to one of the guards, holding out the folded parchment.

“Give this only to the Prince - into his own hand, do you understand?”

The gruff nod he recieves in answer isn’t very comforting, but there is little that Benvolio can do about that. All he can do was hope that there still remains some honest men in the world, and that the guard would pass along his letter, or that the Prince himself may remember his promise. It is a weak thread to balance on. It could be that his words were as good as scattered to the wind, a blind howling of a wolf to a moon it would never reach, and the world was just unfair as it seems, and Rosaline Capulet would never know that he loved her.

But he is about to die, and he wants to do so with at least a shred of hope. At some point, _hope_ had started to sound like her voice, and her kind eyes, and her name on his lips.

So he closes his eyes as he steps into blaring sunlight, the jeering of the gathered crowds rising from a low din to a cacophony of cries and insults hurled at his feet, and he prays to a half-forgotten God that his letter finds its way into the right hands. It might very well be his last action on earth; he wants it to _mean_ something. Even if . . . even if she does not feel the same, if she burned the page or threw it away – Benvolio needs her to know.

What he doesn’t expect is to catch her eyes amid the throbbing pulse of people.

They swell around the gallows, a mass of people moving with a hum of anger as they shout for his blood, clamouring and surging, waves of discontent – but still, amid the chaos and confusion, his eyes find hers. Everything goes still around them. Rosaline’s eyes are the same dark brown they have always been, an infinite black hole that swallow him entire, but now they are cracked and spilling over at the edges with tears, as she stumbles with the crowd towards him. Even now, those eyes captivate him, body and soul. It is a relief for a man about to die – Rosaline’s eyes take him in and shelter him from the surrounding eye of the storm, dulling the shackles biting into his wrists and the screaming of the crowd, even as he is knelt at the gallows, a blade suspended above his head.

As long as he can keep looking at Rosaline – it is enough. Just being able to tilt his head to meet her gaze, as shattered as her expression was, meant that he can die a happy man. It is a strange thing, to know his life is now measured in seconds and not years. There was a time not too long ago, when the absence of Romeo and Mercutio was a keen thorn in his side, he would have been glad to know his suffering was drawing to a close, and that he would see them both again soon –

Now, he wishes only for more time. _For her._

An hour, a day - his whole life.

In the end, Benvolio is torn between wishing that she is not here to see this, and relieved that he would not have to do this alone. Just her presence gave him strength. Because Rosaline Capulet carries around enough ghosts without adding him to the burden she totes around, an albatross around her neck, but she also never stoops or bows to that weight, standing tall amid the crowd. And if she could be a tower of truth – then he could have courage. Although he hates to be a fracture in a heart fit to crack, light spilling through the seams, Benvolio cannot tear his eyes away from her.

If she could keep standing there, with those eyes, so beautiful that he ached for looking at her; if there was such a thing of _mercy_ \- she would be the last thing that he saw on this earth.

The blade above his head is sharp, and Benvolio drank her in one last time before squeezing his eyes shut tight, waiting for the guillotine for fall. Silence weights heavily on him. The world disappears, but burned onto his retinas like the flash of the world between strikes of lightning, there is Rosaline, and her name is on his lips as he breathes his last; it is a sigh. If he dies praying to her, does it make her a god? Or just another broken heart in his wake? He hopes that she finds more reasons to smile, that her years are long and happy, and that if there is a heaven, he will see her again there someday.

His thoughts swirl and clash in a final panicked blur as he holds his breath, waiting for the release, for the crack of the blade falling –

But it never comes.

Instead, a voice rings out, and it takes every last bit of strength left in him for Benvolio not to collapse bonelessly onto the platform at the realisation that he will not die today. When he does stand, shackles removed by the Prince, who is _pardoning_ him, extraordinarily – his eyes turn back to her. Like magnets, hers are on his already; the sorrow is still lined on her face, worn into the tear-tracks marking her dark skin, but Rosaline is smiling back. Sure, it is a weak smile, a watery expression of relief, but it is _real_.

Naturally, because the universe seems to be leading them down a path where they are always saying goodbye, everything goes to hell the second after that.

There are arrows and shouts; the Prince bleeding on his hands and _Rosaline_ , flying to the platform with wide eyes and a line of fear in the set of her jaw.

“I’m not leaving here without him!”

It hurts, but it is a dull ache. She loves Escalus. He knows this. The panic etched onto her face as she touches the Prince is only a reminder of what he knows to be true. It takes only a heartbeat to push down the uneasy lurch of his stomach; Benvolio’s only thought is that she survives this.

“And I’m not leaving without _you_.”

Somehow, they stagger to their feet, the wounded monarch between them, and stumble away from the hail of arrows.

The palace looms in the distance, too far to get to fast enough. Escalus is warm where he leans against Benvolio, already with a feverish sweat on his brow and trailing a thin trail of red behind them. It seems that as soon as he has been reprieved, Benvolio is running out of time once more. Exhausted, he motions with his head and steers them to the left, towards a set of stone steps.

“This way-”

Rosaline argues, which he expects, because she’s _Rosaline_. “But the Palace is that way-”

“Yes, and the first place they will look for him. We can only assume that this is Paris’ planned attack on the city – nobody is prepared, it will be chaos. Paris _will_ take the city. I’m sorry, Rosaline, but if they find the Prince, they _will_ kill him. His best chance is to hide.”

He isn’t expecting the Prince to argue, but Escalus does just that, fighting against their arms weakly.

“No . . . the people need me . . . I won’t run.”

“If you go to the palace, you will _die_ ,” Benvolio says, fixing the man with a look as stern as he can muster. “And a dead prince is of no use to the city. If a defence can be mounted, your sister will manage it – if not, she is likely to be spared as a woman if Paris takes the palace. You would not be. My prince, the best thing you can do for the city right now is _live_ – Verona will still be standing when you are well enough to reclaim it, but we _must_ go, **now** -”

All of the fight extinguished from his eyes, Escalus nods weakly and leans on Benvolio all the more as they half-fall down the stone stairs. In a stolen glance, Benvolio notes the crimson spilling from between Escalus’ fingers at the bed of the arrow, and the red at the edge of his lips – he needs a healer, and soon. Benvolio increases his steps.

The alleys and back-streets of Verona are a second home to him. Weaving through the mass-panic expertly, hidden amid the crowds, Benvolio leads them through the heart of the city, ducking into an all-too familiar tavern just as it seems Escalus’ legs would give out beneath him. Using a back-entrance hidden behind a hanging cloth to reveal a wooden door, Benvolio knocks twice, whispering loudly.

“Stella? It’s Benvolio Montague – and the Prince. I-I know we did not part on good terms, but I _need_ you.”

The door remains unyielding and silent. Benvolio has time enough to contemplate that if she does not answer, the Prince will die, before the door opens a crack. All he catches is a flash of blonde hair and sharp eyes that had been so sad when he last saw them before the door is flung open, and an open-mouthed Stella took in the sight of the bleeding prince of Verona on her doorstep.

“Stella,” Benvolio breathes, voice hoarse. “He will die unless you help us. _Please_.”

Stella bites her lip, glancing at the empty alley behind them with caution before saying, “If there’s people after him, you should get him out of the city.”

“He will bleed out before we get that far-” Benvolio steps forward as she tries to shut the door, catching it with an open palm. He pleads with his eyes. “Nobody will be looking for the prince of Verona in a brothel. We’ll be safe here, long enough to tend to his wounds, _if you help us_ -” He deflates, knowing that if she turns him away again, they’re all dead, and it will have been for nought. “Stella, right now you’re the only person in Verona with enough power to save him. This is _your_ choice. All I can do is ask.”

She hesitates for a moment. The world hangs in the hands of a whore in a back-alley brothel who he had once sworn to love, and Stella never ceases to amaze him. She gives him a long, assessing look before stepping aside.

“Inside. _Quick_.”

Within minutes, Prince Escalus is on a bed that Benvolio had defiled several times over, bleeding onto white sheets as the two women descended upon him. It’s not a sight one usually faces, and Benvolio finds himself slumping against the wall, numbness spreading through his limbs. He is _tired_. It hits him suddenly, just how much his body aches and his mind is worn. He is tired, and he is _alive_ , and so much has changed in the space of a day that he can no longer keep pace with the world.

Sinking into the wall as a ghost, he watches as Stella rips a dress into strips to bind the wound with, calling for more girls from the next room for help. They arrive with a flurry of skirts, bowls of clean water in their hands, and as he watches from his far-away state, he see’s Rosaline fumble with a bandage, hands shaking violently. He see’s Stella turn to her with a softness she hadn’t allowed for the other woman before, taking the bandage with gentle hands. He sees her lips form words, but it takes his mind too long to process what it is that Stella says –

It’s not until Rosaline steps away, falling back limply in a similar daze to his own as the other women take over, that it clicks into place.

_I can do this, my lady. You cannot help like this. I promise you, I will do all that I can for him, but you should rest._

And when Rosaline looks as lost as he feels, stumbling away with eyes unseeing, Benvolio can find the energy to stand. He walks over to her, putting one hand on her back and hiding a wince as she jumps at the touch, turning to him with eyes just as tearful as they had been with a blade over his head, but doubly as tired. They flick over him both eagerly and quietly, settling on his face as she bites her lip.

“Just-” she cracks; crumbles, tears anew staining her cheeks as she presses a firm hand to her lips. When she finds her voice again, it is cracked and scared in a way he has never before seen from her, “Just don’t leave, please. I just got you back and I – I cannot lose everyone.”

It’s oh so easy to pull her into his chest. Benvolio presses his lips into her hair, just once, and promises.

“It’s all right, Capulet. I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Rosaline’s head tucks just under his chin, to the side, and he feels the moment that her hands latch onto the back of his shirt and cling on tightly.

For an age they stand, as the room falls into the steady pace of water and bandages, as Rosaline breaths in as he breathes out. One hand works its way into her hair, holding her closer, and both of hers stay clasped with a fervent desperation into his shirt, as if he were the only thing tethering her to the world. If he was an anchor, then she was the sea, and the tiredness fled Benvolio as he loses himself to the smell of her hair, and the warmth of her body; the fact that beneath his hands she is solid, really _there_ , not some dream or vision. An hour ago he had been a dead man. Holding her, he felt the life flood back into his chest.

In between heartbeats, the world changes yet again.

He notices Stella stand straight over Rosaline’s shoulder, her eyes skimming over the two of them before she nods to him, stepping forward. Benvolio steps out of the embrace, noticing the small murmur of surprise Rosaline made at the movement before even the stiffness of his own limbs made themselves known, so he gestures behind her to the bed and turned his attention back to Stella.

“He’ll live,” she says, fiddling with her hands, wrapped around a bloody piece of cloth. She is _definitely_ avoiding his gaze. “We did what we could – but he needs a _real_ doctor, Benvolio.”

“That’s not possible right now.”

Stella’s pale lips twist into a frown. She isn’t stupid – she never was, his Stella, always a step ahead of every man in the room without them even knowing it – she can tell that something is going on. Finally, she meets his eyes. There is a sharp defiance there, daring him to bring up what had happened the last time they had met, but there is also a worried set to her jaw, a fear not-quite hidden. Simply put, she looks exactly as she did that night. Scared and angry and _sad_.

For now, she does not push the point, giving him a curt nod. “He’ll sleep for a while.”

“Thank you.”

To his surprise, and Stella’s, it is Rosaline who speaks, moving forward to take both of the other woman’s hands in her own. From his angle behind the Capulet, Benvolio only has a second to appreciate the startled look on Stella’s face at the gesture before Rosaline moves on in a blur, going to Escalus’ bedside and taking a set on the edge of the bed. It dips under her weight; his eyes follow her. As Rosaline reaches out, tenderly resting a hand on the Prince’s forehead, he finds it strangely hard to look away, or even blink.

Stella’s hand on his arm pulls him back into the moment. Blinking hard, he finds her closer than before, looking up at him with an expression he could not place.

“Beg pardon?” he asks, “I apologise, I was-”

“Distracted? I’d noticed,” she says, lip tugging up to one side. Stella was teasing, but not unkind. Moving to stand beside him, both of them look back towards the bed, eyes on the Prince and the Capulet. “You care for her. Do not deny it, Benvolio – I know you too well for that.”

“I-” the words caught in his throat. “I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Stella replies quietly, refusing to look over even when his head turned sharply in her direction. Benvolio could see only her profile. “For what I did – for what it almost cost you. I didn’t have a choice. I’m a _woman_ , and a whore at that – this world isn’t made to be fair to people like me. Nor you, from the looks of it. So I’m sorry.”

There is a hand on his arm, squeezing once before she leaves. Stella’s absence was a familiar sort-of loneliness, one he had walked with before, but this time it burns to a lesser degree. A part of him might wonder where they would be tonight had she decided to run away with him as he proposed, but a greater part cannot tear his eyes away from Rosaline Capulet, no matter how much looking at her is breaking his own heart.

Because he can see the soft way she is looking in turn at Escalus, soothing hands on his skin, and it is a look made for lovers. Even in his sleep, he see’s Escalus’ hands move to cover her own. Of course she loves him. Benvolio had seen them in the chapel; he had believed for a moment as her lips brushed his that maybe he could be worth the kind of love he’d saw that night, but at the end of the day Escalus is a prince, and he is a _Montague_.

It didn’t mean that he does not love her – on the contrary, Benvolio has never been so sure of anything in his life.

But Rosaline loves Escalus, and he has to accept that. He would give his every breath to seeing that they both survived this, because Rosaline had saved his life in more ways than one, and he would dedicate the rest of it to ensuring a smile remained on her face. Really, as long as she was happy – even if it was the Prince who made her so – he was content. It is something he could even begin to believe, repeating it in his mind as he watches them, eyes itching from the candlelight, hands fisted at his sides. Almost.

That is what love is, he supposes. He thinks he understands now why Romeo followed Juliet even into death.

But watching them is making it too hard to draw a breath, so Benvolio slips quietly from the room as Rosaline takes Escalus’ hand, rubbing her thumb over his fingers, leaving to stand guard at the door. It takes her out of sight - but never out of mind. As he leans his back against the stone wall, Benvolio closes his eyes tightly and wonders if she will ever want to talk about the kiss in the dungeon. It was pity; he sees that now, for he was about to die and she was kind above all else, but he can still taste her, and with his eyes closed, that moment seems close enough to be real again.

Benvolio snaps his eyes open and rests a hand on his sword.

_She does not love you._

But with the lingering taste of her on his mouth, as he reaches up a gloved hand to rest against his lips, he isn’t quite sure.

*

Escalus sleeps for a long time, and Rosaline does not relinquish her grip on his hand for the entire time. He looks so pale, and still, and the warmth of his hand in her own is the only thing stopping her from falling into memories of blood spilling into the cracks of a stone tiled floor and her mother’s screams in the night. Fear forces the world further away, until it was only him filling her view as she held his hand, checking his temperature every few minutes when sitting still became too much and fretting something awful about him. Escalus had to – he _couldn’t_ di– she couldn’t even _think_ it.

They had been children together, once. Then and now, he was important to her, no matter how many times the definition of their relationship changed. That much would remain true. And even if – she was not _in_ love him anymore, not in the way she once was – she still _loved_ him. It was just of a different nature.

By the time he wakes, stirring softly in the sheets, she is too drained of emotion to do anything but squeeze his hand. The tears are long-since dried on her cheeks, making them stiff and achey, but she manages a weak smile for him when the first thing he does is bestow one on her. Escalus’ eyes are watery, something veiled in them, delirious; his forehead is warm underneath her fingertips as she checks, and he catches her hand before it can return to her side.

“My Lady Thorn.”

The use of the name he had fondly used in childhood throws her for a moment. Rosaline freezes, mouth falling open, and suddenly his hands in her own seem like a complicated matter. She draws them away, noticing the flicker of a frown on his face as she does so.

“Escalus, do you . . . do you remember what happened?”

She is tentative, watching his face carefully for a reaction. Since they were small, he had been unnaturally good at hiding his heart behind a wall of stone, masking himself from the city by never letting his true feelings show plainly on his face, but she had become adept at reading his moods. Escalus’ brows draw together slightly, just for a fraction of a second, and his mouth slides closed. _Confusion_.

Covering his hands with one of her own again, Rosaline explains gently. “There was an attack on the city. You were – you were shot, and we brought you someplace safe to be tended to. You’re safe here, I promise.”

“I know that. You are here,” he replies. Now it is Rosaline’s turn to try and hide her emotions, for her heart tugs at the words, at the simple trust he placed in her. She wishes they could return to a time when it was as simple as that between them. Escalus blinks heavily, exhausted and still pale from loss of blood, and his expression twists as he tried to remember. “You were . . . there was an execution. Paris. The Montague - is he-”

“Benvolio is alive,” Rosaline replies, filling in the gap quickly. It still sends a shiver through her, to speak the words and know they were true. Benvolio was – she turns, looking over her shoulder and expecting him to be there – but Benvolio is nowhere in sight. She wonders if he left with Stella. There was something there, she knew; an ugly spike of jealousy pitted her stomach against the rest of her body at the thought. But Benvolio is gone, so Rosaline tries to hide her surprise – and hurt – as she returns her gaze to Escalus. “He’s here, too. Somewhere. He helped me to get you here.”

Escalus falls quiet, lying back in the bed and staring at her for a long moment. His eyes glaze over – he is looking at her but not seeing her, disconnected in thought – she squeezes his hand to bring him back. Tongue darting out between dry lips, he blinks back up at her, vision clearing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his blinking getting slower, like a drunken man’s. “For all of this. I never should have-”

“Shhh,” Rosaline hushes him, wiping a tear from where it trickles from the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does. I – I used you when I should have loved you. And I lost you because of it.”

“I’m still here, Escalus. You will always be my prince and my friend.”

“But you no longer trust me, not in the way you once did,” Escalus replies, eyes turning soft. Rosaline can find no argument to mount, and he deflates a little at her silence, sighing. “It is all right, my lady. I count myself lucky to still have your friendship and your wise counsel.”

“Shall I remind you of that next time you think not to listen to me?”Rosaline asks, but her lips curve into a teasing smile, eyebrows climbing on her face.

Although it clearly pains him to do so, Escalus cracks a laugh at that. He grips his side, wincing, but the sound brings lightness to the room that was not there before. This is what it should have been like all along, Rosaline decides. It seems crazy to her that they have wasted so much time, when they could have been best friends all along. She finds herself smiling along, just glad that he is alive, and here with her, and that the horrible silence between them had been broken.

They’re interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and the woman from earlier entered.

“I thought I heard voices,” Stella says, walking briskly over to them. She looks down at the prince but refused to meet his eye. “May I check your bandages, m’lord?”

Escalus pouts slightly at the informal mode of address, but nods for her to continue all the same. “Of course. You healed me?”

Stella hums stiffly in reply. From where she is sat, Rosaline can see the anger in the other woman’s jaw, suspecting that Stella was biting the inside of her cheek, and before she can even think _don’t_ , Escalus is sitting up straighter and asking, “Have I done something to give offence, my lady?”

“Not in person, no,” Stella replies, not-so-gently checking his bandages. When she does lift her eyes to meet the Prince’s gaze, they are aflame, and Rosaline can see why Benvolio had liked this woman. “I have endeavoured to keep my distance from the crown, aside from the coin of your nobles, in fact. The whole lot of you can go hang as far as I’m concerned; no crown ever did a thing for me-”

“Ensuring the protection of this city is nothing to you, is it?”

“Protection from _whom_?” Stella snaps, glaring fully at Escalus now. She is no longer touching the bandages, drawn up to her full height, hands on hips. “The only time our paths have ever crossed would be when your men were in here threatening me into giving up Benvolio Montague. Came in here like they owned the place, harassing the girls and saying that I’d be imprisoned for prostitution unless I betrayed a man a cared for. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Stella catches herself at the last minute, nodding coldly and adding with as much venom as it was possible to fit into two words, “ _Your majesty_.”

With that, she sweeps from the room. Rosaline watches the whole exchange open-mouthed in shock, and is barely able to look back at Escalus – who in turn has not managed to pry his gaze from Stella’s retreating back. To her further surprise, there isn’t a trace of anger in his expression – no, it is closer to something like awe. He used to look at her that way.

Escalus’ mouth is open, but he finds his voice to remark. “She’s quite a woman.”

“Aye,” Rosaline replies, smiling slyly as she glanced at her friend. “I believe her name is Stella.”

Hearing the implication in her voice, Escalus turns back to her with a well-worn smile, but pauses thoughtfully when his gaze did come to rest on her. For a moment he looks so sad, eyes full of sorrow, that she wonders if she didn’t break his heart, too. It seems too fragile a moment to break with words. So Rosaline just looks back, as honestly as she can, and hopes that the cracks between them, forged of mistrust and betrayal, can one day be fixed. Escalus bites his lip, goes to say something –

“I never got the chance to thank you,” Rosaline says, before he has the chance. She isn’t even really sure why she says it, but it feels important, somehow. “For sparing his life.”

Escalus’ jaw locks as his gaze becomes fixed. After he has swallowed once, Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement, he replies, “I – I wasn’t going to, not at first. I believed that Benvolio’s death could heal the city. I thought it might be the only thing left that could, at that point-”

“What changed your mind?”

“You,” Escalus says, eyes cast down. “I saw you. In the crowd – you were crying, for _him_ , and I – if a Capulet weeps for a Montague’s life, then maybe it is time for the bloodshed to come to an end. I saw you, and I couldn’t bear to break your heart twice.”

There’s an unspoken meaning behind his words; he knows, and Rosaline does not raise her voice to give any reply to the accusation of _you love him_. She sees the moment Escalus uncovers the truth in her silence, as a shadow passes over his features. He nods once, almost as if to himself, before reaching into the chest of his battered doublet and pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment. When Rosaline opens her mouth to ask what it is, it is pushed into her trembling hands.

“I . . . I don’t understand. What is this?”

Escalus gives her a soft, sad look. His eyes are falling closed, from exhaustion and injury, and maybe from heartache, too. But he is gentle as he wraps her fingers around the parchment and tells her, “Before the execution – it was his last request. It is for you.”

No more words are needed, and Escalus’ eyes fall closed as Rosaline stands numbly, turning the parchment around in her hands. It’s yellow and red, stained with blood, but the black ink beneath is still legible. Benvolio’s writing is messy and jumps across the page, some things crossed out, others underlined. It flows as naturally as a heartbeat as Rosaline begins to read, discovering that in her mind she can hear his voice as clear as a bell, as if he were saying the words to her instead of putting them down on paper.

_~~Capulet~~ _

_ Rosaline _

_It always comes down to names with the two of us, is not that strange? First the names of our families, which made us enemies where we might have been friends; and now my name makes me a murderer in the eyes of Verona, and death I fear shall keep us apart evermore. Whether you chose to go on as Capulet – or indeed as a princess – know that to me, you are Rosaline, my friend. I shall die thinking of you as such, and I hope that should you think of me in some day to come, it is not as a Montague, but only as ~~your friend~~ Benvolio. I pray that I have earned the honour to be called your friend in turn._

_Know that no blame for this lies with you. I made my choices. Good and bad – but entirely my own. If my destiny is to die so that the city might be healed, then I shall do so in the hopes that it will be to create a future in which you can be safe, and happy, and live long years in which you smile often and waste no time thinking on things that were not your fault. Shed no tears for me. I would sooner remember you smiling, although I only saw you do so rarely. Of all my choices, trusting you was one of my finest, and my only regret as I write this is that I have no more time left to ~~l~~ give to you, and that we wasted so much hating one another over something as ultimately meaningless as a name. _

_It is strange for me to wish for time, and yet I find myself longing for more, if only to help you to find your sister, and see that you are both returned safely home. I am sorry that I can no longer help you in this endeavour. I know that you will find a way through this, Rosaline. You are brave, and clever, and stronger than you know. If anyone can save this city, it is you. Trust yourself. But take care of yourself, too. I will pray for the safety of your sister, and that your years with her are long and full of everything you ever wanted. Survive this, Rosaline, and it will all have been worth it. Live. For me._

_~~I~~ _ _Words are not enough. Time is against us. All I will say is this: I have no fear, for death holds no power over me -_ _già volgeva il mio disio e ’l velle - sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa, l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle._

_Strange, that I am about to die, and all I can remember are my memories as a schoolboy. Mercutio hated that book -_ _but it seems my time is spent. Maybe soon I shall see Romeo and Mercutio again, and I shall give your cousin your love, should I find her in an eternal paradise. ~~Someday, it is the dearest desire of my heart that I might see you there.~~ Stay safe, ~~my~~ Rosaline, and keep your head high for all the world to see. _

_Ever yours,_

_Benvolio._

He signed it with no last name, only _Benvolio_ , printed simply on the page.

Rosaline’s heart cracks. Upon finishing the letter, she tastes the tang of salt at the corner of her mouth and realised her breaths are shuddering, leaving scattered teardrops across the weathered page and blurring the ink where they landed. Funny – she had not noticed when she began to cry. It wasn’t the devastation that had played across her face at the funeral; her tears slid slowly down her cheeks, but they were controlled, steady. This is not the end of the world. She isn’t losing him this time – in fact – she thinks that she might just have found him. Closing the letter up in an attempt to banish the words and her tears, Rosaline holds the page to her chest, hands closing over it and holding it tightly.

As her breathing slows, her hands trembling but growing steadier as the words bled through the page, into her skin and deeper, flowing straight to her beating heart, Rosaline allows her mind to drift, piecing together what Benvolio actually said in the letter – and what he did not. For between the lines and in the keen absence of the things he did not say plainly, there was another meaning entirely. But the words themselves were not there.

Before the idea has even fully formed in her mind, she is striding from the room with the letter clutched in her hand, heeled shoes striking the floor and echoing against the stone, as Rosaline Capulet stalked down Benvolio Montague.

It’s halfway out the door when the thought hits that maybe she doesn’t want to find him. If Benvolio was with Stella . . . Rosaline doesn’t know if she would like what she finds. Stopping sharply, she pauses outside the door to Escalus’ room, relieved to find nobody else in sight, eyes returning to the letter and reading it over another few times, trying to pick out some secret message. What if it is only as it seemed? A simple letter to a friend, so that she did not blame herself? What if – what if the kiss was just a kiss, and Benvolio has disappeared into another room with Stella because _she_ was who he loved?

Rosaline curses internally – she is a fool. Perhaps the reason why Benvolio had made a point of saying that Escalus was who she loved was because he was also in love with someone else. What if he had kissed her while thinking of another? Benvolio had thought he was to _die_. He would have taken comfort anywhere, she told herself, leaning back against the wall as bitter tears sprung in her eyes, ashamed and embarrassed at what a fool she had made of herself. But although he had kissed her, it must have been Stella in his mind on the gallows.

_Stella_ is who he loved. _Stella_ is who he had run to.

Shame curdles in the pit of her stomach, as she curls into herself against the wall, letter twisting in her hand by her stomach as the other was pressed tightly to her lips, holding back the flood. Rosaline knows that more important things are happening, but the slap of rejection – of thinking they were something more – it was overwhelming, for a second. A shout from the next room pulls her out before Rosaline’s thoughts could tumble too deep down that avenue.

Frowning, she pulls back a cloth curtain and saw the inside of the tavern – the bar is overflowing as usual, with girls wandering between the patrons, although she does not spot Stella among them – and why on earth is she looking for a flash of golden hair? She shouldn’t care where – or _who_ – Stella is with. Verona is falling outside. Escalus has been shot. So why is she standing, reeling over a letter and Benvolio Montague?

Rosaline steps away from the curtain, back into the passage outside of Escalus’ room. Although she tries to gather her wits and thoughts together to formulate a plan, a way to survive, she feels her lips twitch upwards in irritation every few minutes at the drifting noise of men and drinking carrying in from the next room. The city is potentially under siege – she does not know – and people are in here, fucking and drinking themselves silly. She cannot quite fathom it for a second. But then she recalls leaning between prison bars to press her lips against Benvolio’s, despite the cold iron digging into her face, and maybe, _maybe_ it made sense.

What do you do when you might die in the morning? If you might not even survive the night?

It was simple: you told the truth.

If there is no future, nothing left to plan for: only a certain end to a long series of events that left you with no safe ground to stand on, then what is the point in holding anything back? Whether it be telling your mother you loved her, or revealing a secret burning a hole in your soul, or raging at the person who was about kill you, or telling stories you swore to take to the grave simply so another living person can carry them on, or – or telling the person you loved that you loved them. Dying men are honest and free in a way few ever manage to be. Benvolio had believed his time was nigh – and what did he do with what precious little time he had left?

He wrote a letter. To _her_.

Rosaline has to believe that it meant something.

She starts walking again almost as an afterthought – because now she finds herself alike, thinking that with Paris coming and Escalus injured, it may well be their last night on earth. The realisation that this could be all there was makes her feet fly. Because if these are her last hours, she is not going to spend them wondering where she and Benvolio stand.

What do you do when you know any moment could be your last?

You make them count.

Rosaline is running by the time she finds him, almost running into him as she rounds a corner. Benvolio is slumped against a wall outside the tavern, head bowed, something quietly sad on his face – but as she approaches like the rolling of thunder announcing a coming storm, he stands straight, facing her with surprise etched onto his brow.

“Capulet? What’s wrong?”

She holds out the letter between them, clutched in a fist so tight her knuckles turn pale. Benvolio’s face follows suit when he sees what she is holding.

“What is this?” Rosaline demands, taking a step towards him. Her voice snags on the words, and she grimaces at the sound, even as Benvolio’s face falls slack as his eyes widen. He is unable; it seems, to lift them from the bloody page. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand. You say a lot here but not – what does this mean?”

The last part is small, tired. It falls from her limp lips and clogs the gap between them, as Rosaline looks at him, and Benvolio frozenly stares at the page. Blinking slowly, like waking from a long sleep, he drags his gaze up to her – eyes sharp and dulled at the same time, bright with wetness and yet clouded.

“Capulet, I-” Benvolio breaks off, tongue darting between parted lips. “I thought I was to die.”

“You didn’t,” she replies, stepping ever-closer. Almost daring him to cave and look away, she stares him down from an inch away. “You’re _not_. So now you must explain to me what this means instead of leaving me to figure it out alone.”

“I never – it was never my intention to leave you, but to _free_ you,” Benvolio splutters, an all-too familiar brow crease of mild annoyance marking his face. Leaning into her challenge as the blank shock fades away, his lip twitches as he adds. “I left that letter in the hopes that it might bring you some peace. Because after all of this I _know_ you, Capulet, and I knew you would try to blame yourself. And I cannot think of a less deserving person for that burden. I did not . . .” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose for the smallest of seconds, “I did not intend for it to cause any distress – the opposite is true.”

Rosaline considers that. Objectively, it is the truth. Benvolio probably did intend to relieve her guilt with the letter, in part – but she suspected that there was more to it than that. She could let this matter be settled right now with that feeble explanation, and ignore the burning words not written and yet obvious on the page, and the way he looks at her as if he is still dying. Like he is still condemned, and all he wishes to do is look. She knows that she is looking back in the exact same way, a mirror to his longing, trying to commit every line and freckle on Benvolio’s face to memory.

War makes people do strange things in love. They get married. They make babies. They say things under extreme pressure that ordinarily would not pass their lips, but like diamonds made from stress, create something brighter than the raging world around.

In the end, she doesn’t let him get away with that. She doesn’t want to. Whatever needs to be said . . . she wants to hear it. So Rosaline pushes, “But the things you say . . . it’s more than absolution.”

He doesn’t look away, but neither does he answer. Instead he swallows thickly, eyes darting to her lips before he dragged a hand through his hair, caught between panic and relief. Tears shine in Benvolio’s eyes, but he does not wipe them away – he wears them proudly, like a badge of honour, blinking back at her strangely as he laughs hollowly after a moment, the sound caught in the back of his throat. There are too many emotions on display to count. Benvolio keeps looking back at her face, shaking his head slightly; and she can see why it could be overwhelming for him.

After it, it wasn’t every day you were taken to the brink of death and back.

“Benvolio,” she urges softly after a few long minutes. During that time, he shifts on the balls of his feet, laughs, and continues to shake his head, staring at her as she waited for an answer, all the while resisting the urge to reach out a hand in comfort. When she does speak, however, his head snaps up towards her, hanging on every word. “You promised never to lie to me.”

It’s a surprise when her words have an adverse affect, making his tears fall as Benvolio stares at her a moment longer – then, slowly, he begins to speak.

“I was _scared_. It’s not something you’re supposed to say, but I was, and – when I was on those gallows, when I was about to die . . .” His eyes swivel from her face to his feet, flicking back up hungrily; reaching out, Benvolio idly holds a strand of her hair between his fingers, where it has come unpinned in their flight, tucking it behind her ear. As he removes his hand, it trails down her cheek, leaving pin-pricks in his wake. She shudders at the touch, leaning into his hand where it lingers, and it isn’t until he drops it back to his side that she can breathe again. “All I could think about was you. I saw you. And I thought, ‘ _if Rosaline Capulet can be brave, then so can I’_.”

Benvolio laughs again, but it reaches his eyes this time as he looks at her.

Rosaline wants to say something – to affirm that the feeling was mutual, that he had changed her mind and had been an ally – a _friend_ \- in a time when she felt so painfully _alone_ that home felt like a prison – or maybe just to ask or him to say it. The thing they both knew.

In the end, she didn’t have the chance to speak, because Benvolio added softly, “You were with me in every heartbeat, Capulet.”

She steals anything else he was about to say with a kiss.

Rosaline surges into him, clashing in a fierce meeting of lips and teeth and _Benvolio_ , not even consciously deciding that she was going to kiss him – it is _right_ , meeting him in the middle. The letter is still clutched in her hand, between them on his chest, but his own quickly fall to her back as the edges of his lips curve up in a pleased way, pulling her closer until she is flush against him, Benvolio’s back to the wall. As he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, Rosaline gives a small moan against his mouth, stumbling forward until her free hand has to move to the wall beside his head to keep herself from falling into him. The stone wall is cold and rough against her fingertips, but Benvolio is soft and warm and _yielding_. It is a long time before she pulls away.

When she finally surfaces, gasping as her lips left his and pressing her forehead against his to create a gap for breathing room, Rosaline cannot miss the smile that has appeared on his face. It is not a wry smile, nor a mocking grin – it is small and delicate on Benvolio’s face, lips redder than usual, and she is glad of it to capture her attention for a few moments as she catches her breath. It saves her from having to meet his gaze and acknowledge the impropriety of her kissing him, in a _brothel_ , when they are no longer engaged.

If her sister could see her now . . .

The thought sobers her, and Rosaline uses the hand on Benvolio’s chest to push him away. They can’t be seen like this. Although he makes a small noise of protest, the smile turning to a pout, he looks up at her with teasing eyes in a way that she cannot help but laugh at.

“Capulet-”

“We can’t,” she tells him, head tilting to one side. “There’s a war outside.”

“All the more reason,” he complains, pulling her close again. “If I’m going to die in the morning, I’d rather spent every minute until then kissing you.”

It is the flattering, empty sort of words that she would usually roll her eyes at, but Rosaline finds herself biting her lip to stop herself from seeing if he could keep that promise.

Taking his hand with a glance down the empty alley, she leads him back inside the tavern. Even now, it isn’t safe to be seen together, and she wonders if there would ever be a day when she could walk the streets of Verona with Benvolio and be safe again. She would quite like that. Once inside, the glow of the candles seem to hide more than the bright light of day, and she pauses, facing him again, a tickling honesty yearning to break free.

“Can we talk?” she asks frankly, turning to him.

“Of course.”

“I,” she pauses, the words hard to say even now. After so many years living with closed doors and windows, never letting anyone in and building a wall of thorns around her heart, Rosaline is throwing open the shutters and letting the light spill in. Benvolio stands with hands full of cuts and eyes full of adoration before her, and she could love him, she thinks. “I hide myself to keep from being hurt. I’ve done it ever since my father died, because I saw his blood on my mother’s hands and thought: _this is the price of love_. If love was hurting, I did not want it. So I do not let people in-” When Benvolio looked down, immediately forlorn and nodding in acceptance at what he believed to be a rejection, Rosaline tucked a finger under his chin and lifted his face until it was level with her own again, eye to eye. “-But I let _you_ in. Only you. Even Escalus . . . he was a _prince_ , and he left me . . . a part of me never really believed that he was back. When I kissed him – even in the chapel – it was tasting the past. And then he hurt me and I was reminded why I held the world at arm’s length.”

“Rosaline, you don’t have to-”

“I do,” she cut off Benvolio’s protests. “I want you to know me; to understand. I – I kept waiting in all the time I’ve known you for you to hurt me in the same way. And when we first met, we argued, but you’ve never let me down. You have never lied to me, and only caused me pain when I thought you were to die, and I – when I kissed you, I could see a future that I had never been a possibility . . . because I _do_ trust you. More than anyone. If love is a blade, then I trust you would never use it to hurt me. That future I thought was lost when you were? That’s the future I still believe in, if we survive.” She takes his hand loosely in her own, biting her lip for a second before adding, “If that is a future you want.”

And he stares at her as if she were something holy, and the candlelight puts stars in his eyes.

For three heartbeats, he stares at her, then he laughs once and presses his lips to hers again. Benvolio does not linger in the kiss this time, but does thread his hand in her hair, a laugh on the lips against her own, and it’s _joyful_. He tastes like sunshine and smoke, like a hard rain after this hot summer that has taken so much from both of them, clearing the streets and washing all the blood away. After all the pain in their past, Rosaline is happy to kiss him in that moment and think instead of the future. _Their_ future.

Benvolio pulls away after a moment, face split into a grin. “Does that answer your question, my lady?”

“Indeed,” she replies, glad that a blush could not show on her face. “I believe it does.”

It’s easy to smile back at him, unable to fight the way her lips tug up, leaning until her head touches his again; with nothing but him in sight, blocking out the rest of the world until only Benvolio’s eyes remain, Rosaline believes for the first time that they could be okay. That they could be enough for each other. That true happiness is not only for poets and bards.

“So,” he says after a moment, “does this mean you will consent to be my wife willingly this time?”

“If we make it that far, aye. Gladly,” She adds, softly, “And if we die tomorrow, at least it will be together.”

Benvolio shakes his head, the movement causing her own to sway against his, and proclaims - “We’re not going to die.”

“You cannot know that. With Paris’ army-”

“I could fight them all myself if you were behind me. I’ve already done the impossible once before-” Benvolio grins teasingly, and she laughs into his mouth with a kiss after he finishes. “I got Rosaline Capulet to fall in love with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of the passage from book ‘paradiso’ of Dante’s 'Divine Comedy' that Benvolio quotes in his letter: "my desire and will were moved already, like a wheel revolving smoothly - By the Love that moves the sun and other stars."


End file.
